


Just To Be Sure

by ohmcgee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Porn Battle XV. Prompts used: Bruised, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just To Be Sure

Brad hears the hit, but doesn't see it, too busy keeping assholes off of Poke, but as soon as the whistle is blown, he turns around and takes a quick survey of the ice. Patterson’s tangled up with Schwetje and Trombley’s at the opposite end of the ice trying to start shit with someone Brad doesn't even know. Fucking rookie keeps bitching about how he still has all his teeth. The only one not standing is Ray’s midget ass.

The trainers are all hovered around him at center ice and Ray’s just bent over, unmoving. Brad can’t get a good enough look as he’d like with Fick and coach in the mix too, but finally Ray gets up and shakes it off, heads down the tunnel.

The rink roars with cheers and Brad remembers how to breathe again.  

 

 

 

***

 

Later that night Brad’s clicking through the channels when Ray let’s himself in, hangs up his coat, sniffing the air.  “Bet you didn’t make me any either, did you? Can’t even get a --”

“Plate’s in the microwave.”

“Really? Damn, I’d get myself boarded on the regular for this kind of service.”

“Shut the fuck up and eat.”  Brad snaps.

Ray, miraculously, does shut up this time, realizing that yeah, too soon probably. He stands at the counter to eat the baked chicken and vegetables Brad had made earlier, while he was still getting his brain tested and all that shit. When he’s done, Ray dumps his plate and fork in the sink then walks into the room with Brad, hopping over the back of the sofa to sit next to him and stretches his legs out, resting his feet in Brad’s lap.

Brad raises his eyebrow. “So, you’re cleared?” He asks  “No more damage to your brain that the inbreeding hadn’t already done?”

Ray grins. “All good.”

Brad sets his Gatorade on the table and says, “Come here,” in that low, heavy voice that never fails to make Ray’s dick wet. So Ray climbs into his lap, straddling him and Brad palms the back of his head, bringing Ray’s mouth to his so he can kiss him, hard and punishing, twisting his fingers in Ray’s hair to pull him off when he’s done.

“Jesus, Brad,” Ray gasps, licking his lip where Brad had bit him, dick tenting his sweats.

“You should’ve had your head up.” Brad practically growls at him.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I get laid out and it’s _my_ fault? Schwetje’s the dirtiest player in the league and you fucking know it, Brad.” Ray puts his hand on Brad’s shoulder and tries to get up but Brad closes his hand tight around Ray’s wrist, pulls him back down into his lap, kissing him just as hard and rough as before. This time Ray gives it back, biting at Brad’s mouth, digging his nails into the back of his neck. Brad fists his hand in Ray’s hair and pulls his neck back so he can bite at his jaw, graze his teeth over Ray’s adam’s apple.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Then Brad’s letting his hair go and tugging at Ray’s shirt, pulling it off over his head. Ray winces when he has to lift his arms and Brad just stops and stares at him.  Ray has bruises all up his left side, from shoulder to hip, the worst of it on his ribs.

“Holy shit,” Brad mutters, his eyebrows doing that weird _worried_ thing that Ray hates.

“Looks worse than it is,” Ray shrugs. Which isn’t the truth _exactly._ The trainer said he possibly had a bruised rib, but Ray knows Brad probably wouldn’t fuck him if he knew that, so he went ahead and filed that in the NOPE column.

“Jesus Christ. How are you even moving right now?”

Ray grins. “Higher than a monkey in a tree full of...somethings.  Whatever. I’m too high on perky c’s to remember how that goes.”

_Ugh_. Now Brad’s making the flat-mouth frowny face Ray hates to go along with the worried eyebrows that Ray hates.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, leaning in and biting Brad’s bottom lip so hard that Brad has to get a fistful of his hair to pull him away.  

Ray leans back, tongue darting out, licking Brad’s blood off his bottom lip.  He catches Brad’s eye, then traces the bruises down his chest with his fingers, wrapping his hand around his own ribs. “Look, Brad.  Look at allll these bruises.  Bruises fuckin’ Schwetje gave me.  That dirty motherfucker.  Look at them, Brad.   _You know you want to come all over them_.”

Brad puts his fingers on Ray’s chest where Ray’s just were, tracing them, pushing his finger into some, getting a thrill each time Ray winces. “There’s so many,” He whispers, so fucking turned on thinking about jerking off all over Ray’s chest, making his own mark on him.

“Well,” Ray grins. “There is a small chance I could still be concussed. So you should probably keep me up all night. You know. Just to be sure.”

“Uh huh,” Brad says, still cataloging the bruises all down Ray’s side with his fingers, pushing and prodding here and there, loving each soft little yelp that comes out of Ray when he does it.  “Just to be sure.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
